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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902193">on the lonely side of the moon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rupzydaisy/pseuds/Rupzydaisy'>Rupzydaisy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Found Family, Gen, Post Film, Reunion Fic, Some angst along the way, and obviously it doesn't last the full hundred, baklava guessing game, copley brings the board of history to booker, exile for a hundred years - except one day, go king- give us something, happy-ish ending, top tech recs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:33:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,422</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25902193</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rupzydaisy/pseuds/Rupzydaisy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“One hundred years, Book, except for one day each year.” </p><p>He's too stunned to say anything at that, hollowed out by the new information, and instead just lets her pull him into a hug that creaks at his ribs. When her hand brushes the back of his head, he leans in closer, hoping to hold onto the moment and commit it to memory. </p><p>There are small mercies in the world, and somehow he’s been given one. </p><p>He watches them turn their backs, climb the stairs up, and go, while wondering about trees falling in forests. The sound of his own loneliness echoes on and on like frothy waves lapping on the shore until he leaves himself. </p><p>A year passes uneventfully, and he barely notices the time go until a message comes through on a secure email account he’s kept active for the past five years and tells him, <i>‘Prague’</i>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy | Andromache &amp; Booker | Sebastien le Livre &amp; Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani &amp; Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Booker | Sebastian le Livre &amp; James Copley, Booker | Sebastien le Livre &amp; Nile Freeman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>351</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>on the lonely side of the moon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><i>Earth so beautiful<br/>can this be the end?<br/>let me learn your miracles<br/>if I am to start again<br/>on the lonely side of the moon</i><br/>-Lonely Side of the Moon, Sarah Slean</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Andy is the one who tells him the group’s decision, <em>one hundred years, </em>and his stomach drops out but he laughs because she looks as brittle as he feels. “I was hoping for less, but I expected more.” </p><p>It sits heavy in his chest, but he can't complain, not really, not when he had expected them to turn their backs and disappear. The fear of them leaving him out in the cold for the rest of his unnaturally long life had plagued him all night as he’d watched them discuss his fate at the table. </p><p>“One hundred years, Book, except for one day each year.” </p><p>He's too stunned to say anything at that, hollowed out by the new information, and instead just lets her pull him into a hug that creaks at his ribs. When her hand brushes the back of his head, he leans in closer, hoping to hold onto the moment and commit it to memory. </p><p>There are small mercies in the world, and somehow he’s been given one.  </p><p>He watches them turn their backs, climb the stairs up, and go, while wondering about trees falling in forests. The sound of his own loneliness echoes on and on like frothy waves lapping on the shore until he leaves himself. </p><p>A year passes uneventfully, and he barely notices the time go until a message comes through on a secure email account he’s kept active for the past five years and tells him, ‘<em>Prague’. </em></p><p>Booker spends the whole night staring at the bright screen until his eyes are dry and it burns to blink. Eventually he breathes and buys his tickets and packs his bag. The sudden whirlwind of making arrangements has him dropping onto his camp bed for a few hours of fitful sleep before his alarm blares out. He obeys the discordant tones and buzzing to haul himself up and it gives himself enough time to drop by the village market on his way out to the airport. </p><p>The connections between his flights are so short he thinks he might have to run for them, but even then he dozes most of the way in cramped economy seats, neck dropping lower and lower until he jerks awake again. </p><p>Each time he jolts back into consciousness, he wonders if he had dreamt the email, or Andy’s words, ‘<em>except one day’. </em></p><p>Their Prague safe house is on the east side of the river, in an old neighbourhood of winding cobblestone roads that slope downwards to let the rainwater sluice off during thunderstorms. They had stopped through the city more around the turn of the century, and he had liked walking through the new Zahrada Kinských in his rare free time. </p><p>When Booker finally arrives at the door, it's late afternoon and a light drizzle falls over the city. He stands on the doorstep with his bag slung over his shoulder, knocks on the door, and when it opens, it's Andy on the other side. She stands in the hallway, pale blue sweater, dark jeans, and as his tentative smile meets hers, it feels <em>almost </em>normal. </p><p>“Hi.” </p><p>“Hey, Book.” Andy pulls him into a hug, and her chin jabs into his shoulder. It’s brief as he pulls away first after hearing noises from inside the apartment. </p><p>He follows her up the creaking stairs into the open plan space with a living room and kitchen combined. To his surprise, Joe and Nicky sit at the breakfast bar with a spread of newspapers across the marble counter. While Joe steadfastly ignores him, keeping his attention fully fixed on the black and white print in front of him, Nicky raises his head, and then lowers it again without any acknowledgement. </p><p>Andy doesn’t force the conversation; it isn't in her nature to.  </p><p>“Hello.” Booker says anyway and languishes in their silence. </p><p>“Hi.” Nile walks in from the balcony, tucking her thumb into her book. She comes through to lean against the sofa, while Andy flops back down and changes the channel on the TV, news to sport, to a rerun of a music concert. </p><p>His eyes flick around the room again, and then he sits on the chair closest to the door and looks back at Nile who's watching him with a friendly smile. “Good book?” </p><p>“<em>A Condensed History of Medieval Art Forgeries.”  </em>She shrugs, and slips into American-accented French. “I’m halfway through so can’t give the full review.” </p><p>"Everyone needs a hobby." </p><p>She pulls a face, “You made it into a career though.” </p><p>Sensing the gulf of history that goes beyond her time with the group, and the slow learning of how things worked for them over the years, Nile had come to also understand that it wasn’t her place to try and build ancient bridges Booker had destroyed. Still, she had been persistent with her calls and messages over the months, a flurry of emails which hadn't abated until he had replied to each and every one of her questions. </p><p>Their conversation trundles along on the last chapter she read, and despite the few exchanges, it peters out soon enough, leaving Booker to stare blankly at the TV. Another song, loud and boisterously sung by the whole band pumps up the crowd packed into the tiny screen. The TV still has an aerial balanced precariously on its blocky top, although he wonders if it’s been disconnected and just plugged into the new box underneath. He can see a handful of his own remnants around, plates he’d bought in the seventies still sit on the drying rack and his collection of books are hoarded in the corner. </p><p>Over at the kitchen table, Joe and Nicky speak to each other in a language he can’t pin down with their lips to each other’s ears and meaningful looks swapped between quick bursts of words. He tries his best not to glance over much, but occasionally he feels their eyes on him. It makes him fidget, shifting to slide back against the overstuffed sofa and his hand knocks against his bag. </p><p>It reminds him of the alarm and his early start that morning. A quick rummage inside produces the unmarked card box that has inevitably leaked syrup onto his spare pair of socks. He hands it over to Andy, wiping his sticky fingers over his trousers, as she sits back up to flip it open with delight. </p><p>Nile leans forward too, smelling the sweet pastry. "What's that?" </p><p>"Baklava." Andy grins back, before slapping Booker on the thigh. </p><p>"It was my turn." </p><p>There's an exhale of breath from the kitchen table, and he catches another unfathomable look between Nicky and Joe, which only leaves him feeling adrift even more. </p><p>The silence from them was more unnatural than his time away, he had easily spent years away from the group, it was easy to pretend at times that his new exile was nothing different from lengthy gaps between meetings. But it was much harder to ignore in person, and far harder to feel the loss of their easy laughter and the comfort of their reunions.   </p><p>"Andy's a bit of a connoisseur." Joe explains to Nile with the smallest of smiles, before tipping his head back to the newspapers and circling something with a marker.</p><p>Andy takes a bite and moans appreciatively, nodding her head as she chews. "This is fresh!" She picks up the small box again and inhales deeply, "Cloves… and cinnamon...I remember making it like this on the shores of Lake Sevan."</p><p>"It's like...a guessing game." Nile grins as a ripple of quiet laughter rolls around the room, even from Joe and Nicky.</p><p>Booker shrugs, "More fun if you bet on it." </p><p>"And I always win." Andy replies, licking her fingers and then holds out the box to Nile. "That's good stuff, Book."</p><p>Nile takes a piece for herself, "Always?" </p><p>Booker blinks, feeling the dissonance from her question, trying to fit the satisfied grin on Andy's face with the contents of the small box that could have come from almost anywhere beyond the Mediterranean. "Yeah, she does."</p><p>"That's...like a superpower or something." Nile says between chews and Andy taps at her foot with her own. </p><p>Her comment also earns another chuckle from Joe, but still the wall of silence cuts Booker off from the rest of the room, and Nile returns to her book. After another song on the TV comes to a wailing end, Andy glances around and then rises smoothly to drag him outdoors to get dinner. </p><p>They buy takeout food and stop by a corner shop for wine where he hovers between two types and then decides to put both in the basket. Even while waiting in the queue, he can feel Andy's eyes on the back of his neck, and it makes him question, "What?"</p><p>"I was thinking, sometimes we go for years without seeing each other."</p><p>"Are you thinking of biking through Argentina this time round?" </p><p>"South America is always fun." She gives a wry smile, "But for now, I've got my hands full again."</p><p>"Oh yeah?" Booker shuffles forward as the cashier begins scanning, handing over a crumpled note she wasn't expecting, and receives a grimace as she begins counting out his change. </p><p>Andy taps at his shoulder lightly as he moves off to pile the bottles into his bag. "What are your plans?"</p><p>"I thought I'd head west." He leaves it at that as they exit the shop and begin the walk back through the gardens. </p><p>Back at the apartment, the breakfast bar is set for three and so Nile and Booker volunteer to sit on the sofa and balance their plates on their knees. He picks at his food and the room remains quiet aside from the crumple of paper towels and cutlery. </p><p>Still the quietness filling the room from wall to wall is of another kind that has plagued him for a full year, and he's had his fill of it. </p><p>He leaves early, before the day is over, and the counter resets. </p>
<hr/><p>The next year passes in the blink of an eye. </p><p>This time round the email pings and deposits a latitude and longitude into his inbox. He makes his travel arrangements and buys a travel pillow at the airport to stuff under his neck for the trio of long-haul flights. </p><p>The day dawns as he's driving down an empty stretch of winding, bumpy road at high altitude in the Bolivian mountains with not a single soul for miles and miles. It’s peaceful with the sparse cloud cover separating him from the heavens that seem like they’re in reach. The sun rises slowly over the mountains, cool blue slipping over the darker shades of night. He winds down the window to let the air in and to see if it could sweep his lingering jet lag away. </p><p>The GPS bleeps out an alert, so Booker pulls off the road and veers towards a small dot of a camp set up on the horizon under the open skies. The good weather promises to keep for at least another week. As he drives closer, he sees them in the midst of a sparring session, throwing up dust into the air. </p><p>The sight of them makes him smile as he parks up and switches off the engine and steps out. </p><p>Even though the nearest town is an hour drive away, and Booker knows they would have brought enough supplies to last out at least two weeks, he still brings out a bag of fruit, a handful of chocolate bars, and two bottles of good rum from the back of the car and deposits it all in the shade of their water supply. </p><p>Then he sits himself down in front of a large rock at the edge of their marked-out ring and watches how the rest of the session turns out. </p><p>They seem to be taking it in turns, half working together and half in opposition. At some unseen signal, they switch fighting styles. It takes him a few more minutes of watching to pick out that Joe was leading the changes. He flips from general boxing techniques and the beginnings of a brawl to switching out with aikido moves. The fight stutters but then they slip back into a rhythm of sliding past each other until Nicky manages to land a series of strikes. </p><p>As Nile lines up to knock Joe back, he takes advantage of a momentary pause to transition fighting styles again, this time to pankration with a solid strike with his right leg at her. Andy backs it up with a waist throw that sends her sprawling. As fluid as ever, Andy then twists to jab at Nicky's attempt to block as together they switch sides and fall into mirroring forward facing stances for the next skirmish. </p><p>It goes on, and Booker chews down a protein bar and washes it down with the cold liquid inside his hipflask as he watches Andy finish up with them and comes to sit beside him. </p><p>"Hey, you." Booker smiles as she claps a dust streaked hand around his shoulder and squeezes tight. </p><p>"Hey, Book." She accepts a protein bar from him and shifts her knees to stretch out her legs on the ground, leaning against the rock behind them. "Not bad, huh?"</p><p>They watch how Nile rounds off the sparring, and it's not hard for Booker to see how she's becoming an intrinsic part of the team. Nile slots in, not as a replacement or a cover, but as herself. </p><p>"If she had landed that hit on Joe, maybe they would have won." </p><p>Andy only snorts at his comment, swallowing down the last bites of the snack and stuffs the wrapper in her pocket. "I'll admit, hand to hand, yes, she’s good. But there's still some things to learn."</p><p>They continue watching as the trio swap methods, and Nile begins to take instructions on how to use a longsword. Her wooden copy smacks against Joe's as he crosses her, while Nicky hovers to the side to call out her footwork. A more laborious, jilting dance begins. </p><p>"I remember doing that." Booker comments, fingers twisting the cap on his flask around and around on the thread.</p><p>Andy's fingers waggle in the air, an unspoken request for him to share the liquid sloshing around in his hip flask, and he complies. "I remember your two left feet. How long did it take?"</p><p>"To their standards? About twelve years, on and off." </p><p>It makes him shake his head, just as she does too, but for different reasons. </p><p>"Here, I picked this up on my way over." Booker hands over a small key chain with a plastic box attached and watches her turn it over in confusion before explaining, "It's a child's toy. A Tamagotchi. A digital pet. You press the buttons, and try to keep it alive. Nile can probably help, they were more common in the nineties."</p><p>Andy looks down at the tacky plastic, clicking at the buttons loudly and then frowns at him, but there’s too much overcompensation for fighting the smile that threatens to curl up her mouth. </p><p>Things reset for a few moments, even with Joe and Nicky's eyes glossing over him at a distance. Funny how it hurts both less and more now that he can see them too. But the journey there is worth it, he'd never not have come, as tenuous a link as it is anyway. </p><p>It still matters. </p><p>For seeing them, for Nile and her questions and bad jokes, for Andy; Booker feels grounded again by her presence beside him.  </p><p>She slips a finger through the keyring and dangles the little box in front of his face. "When I ask you to catch me up on technological developments, this isn't what I meant."</p><p>"No?" He asks, feigning ignorance when he takes back the hip flask, and then a sharp elbow to the ribs as Andy tips her head back to laugh at him. </p>
<hr/><p>Another year flies by, and all the while he goes through the motions, passes the days or rather they pass him by. </p><p>Seasons change like hours, especially after he had made it through the equivalent of his first few lifetimes. Sometimes time unspools itself from him, and either the memories of the years recently gone blur into a jumble of slivers he's managed to retain, or he feels like he could sit at the kitchen table as the sun rises and falls and simply hold his breath until the next decade swaps itself out. </p><p>There was a bobble head Joe had brought back from a museum in New York for Andy as a joke gift a few years ago. It echoed Einstein's famous words in a tinny voice as the head rattled back and forth, “<em>Don't you know, time's all relative?”</em></p><p>While Booker can't remember which place they had met for that reunion, he does remember the voice grating on them after a handful of missions that barely scratched the surface of <em>helping</em>. At some point, someone had ripped out the batteries, and left the bobblehead behind the empty plant pots on the windowsill. </p><p>Still, another year passes while he's not paying attention, and the next time the day arrives, it falls when a mission is scheduled. </p><p>Even with the prior warning from Andy, he's not sure what to expect. </p><p>They end up in the thick of it, as usual, and he finds that the mission shorthand that they had developed over the years as a quartet has evolved. Nile spikes after Andy leads the assault through a blown wall. Nicky, as usual covers their backs, but he also rotates around with Nile to cover Andy from any heavy fire. The importance of it is burned into every fibre of Booker’s being, and he sticks closer to her for it. Joe works seamlessly too, flitting between, knocking down anyone standing from Nile's or Nicky's hits.</p><p>Hanging on Andy’s six at the beginning, Booker watches them as the dust from the blast begins to clear, and then he goes all in, doing what he can to help. Finally, they split into two teams having cleared the majority of the security onsite and begin to circle back. </p><p>"Everyone with me?" Andy asks, and she gets Nile and Booker’s voices in reply. "Good, let's go." </p><p>The road gets a little bumpy from there. When Nile gets blown sideways from a grenade Booker steps up to take her spot covering the empty doorway where it had been thrown from. His eyes keep drifting away from the line of the gun barrel back to where she's curled on the floor, but there's little to worry about since she's covered from any lines of attack, and quick enough in her healing to already be moving.</p><p>"Keep breathing, it'll pass." Booker calls out, watching her nod, forehead resting on the ground. He can speak from experience, knowing just how unpleasant it is. </p><p>"There's movement!" Andy yells from further along, and then he’s moving to catch up as she races on. </p><p>He takes two stray shots to the arm, and one to the chest as he crosses to cover Andy, and then they're back behind a wall. He feels the bullets push out of his skin, the sharp pain turning to an ache, and then disappearing. </p><p>Behind him, Andy taps his shoulder twice, and then steps around while hoisting up her axe to take the lead once more. There's footsteps behind them once Nile hauls herself back up to her feet. </p><p>"You good?" Booker asks over his shoulder. </p><p>Nile taps his shoulder once as she reloads her gun. "Just peachy. Let's roll."</p><p>It goes fine after that, and they walk out with all limbs intact as the sun begins to set. The trek back to the trailer truck that's awaiting them descends into post-mission relief and then levity after Nicky mentions he's hungry. Nile seconds that, and Andy reminds them how it's Joe's turn to arrange dinner. Booker's memory of Joe's laugh is refreshed as the man rattles off a few different places they could eat and Nicky steps in to correct that number down to a grand total of one that he believes is <em>probably </em>still open. </p><p>Booker almost speaks then, a <em>"How much on that bet?" </em>lodges in his throat and is caught by his teeth in the nick of time.</p><p>Nile tips her head, "I don't know guys, I think we'd only be let in if we've cleaned up."</p><p>"Oh yeah?" Joe brushes off some of the dust on Nicky’s arm, letting his hand slip down to take hold of his hand as they reach the truck. Even as Booker lags behind, he can see the mischievous smile on Joe's face, and prepares himself for the cheesy comment that was bound to follow. "Don't listen to her, you look good anyway."</p><p>
  <em>There it is. </em>
</p><p>"Nile’s right though, we’d cause a scene. So, you'll have to cook." Nicky jokes, and the idea of a home cooked meal perks them all up a bit more. </p><p>Joe’s smile widens, "Yeah, I'll cook. Boss's choice."</p><p>He gets a clap on the shoulder from Andy for volunteering, “'If you say so."</p><p>They've all got dust and dried blood over them, flecking off their skin or from where it’s sunk into clothes and boots, but Booker keeps staring at Andy's split lip and the reddened bruise on her temple. It makes his stomach churn violently. His blood thrums with a slipstream of panic that's repeatedly come and gone ever since he saw her skin split under his own bullet and not knit itself together. </p><p>She'd been a constant for him, for Joe, for Nicky, leading them through the years as a voice of experience. She’d been there for them all as both a warrior and an immortal, and he's not sure which has left the bigger mark on him. </p><p>
  <em>"I've seen this before."</em>
</p><p>Andy was the North Star to align themselves by, and he'd followed in her footsteps. Everything that could have been done, she'd done it. Anything to have seen, she'd seen it. </p><p>
  <em>"I used to be a god. They'd worship me before battle. Bring flowers and food offerings and place their weapons at my feet, and then march out behind me."</em>
</p><p>It used to make him laugh in disbelief, and then for even knowing it to be true. </p><p>Now it was slipping away. </p><p>"Book?" As his day comes to an end, Andy turns, gives him a wistful nod and so does Nile before they lean in to embrace him farewell again.</p><p>There's a mix of emotion rippling across Joe's face too, a matter-of-factness warring with reluctance as he pauses before getting into the car. Nicky stands on the opposite side with his eyes fixed on his feet. </p><p>A hundred years, five hundred, it would’ve still meant the same. </p><p>One day at a time, one year after another, until enough time had passed for the wounds he inflicted on his still-living family to have healed enough to allow him to return. It would take as long as it took, to reverse the bitter taste of passing them up onto a platter in ignorance and selfishness, betraying their very existence for something he now can only look back on shame and with the deepest of regrets. </p><p>It all makes Booker turn and walk away first, bearing the weight of his actions. </p><p>Because it seems, no matter how far he flies, or drives, or walks, his guilt remains a constant companion and he understands that one day a year is perhaps the most he can hope for when it comes to earning their trust back. </p>
<hr/><p>The next few years follow the same pattern. </p><p>Booker drinks to forget, remembers things he wishes he couldn’t, and then drinks some more until he picks up Andy’s emails and finds where in the world he needs to go next. He receives his familiar, quiet welcome from Andy and Nile, a nod at best from Joe and Nicky, and spends a few hours like a ghost, or less like a ghost, with the four people that tether him to his existence on earth. </p><p>And then he leaves when his time is up. </p><p>A few months after his last visit in the twisting streets of Monsaraz, Copley breaks his silence since Morocco and invites him back to England. His email is longer than Andy’s normal ones, and he mentions that he’s looking for answers to questions he’s not been able to piece together from his historical research on the team. </p><p>Booker ignores him, pretends he’s unreachable, and then after some more persistent phone calls and frequent email chasers, he heads to Greece and begins island hopping for some peace and quiet. </p><p>It doesn't last for as long as he'd like it to, not when Copley takes it upon himself to communicate his ignored messages in person. </p><p>It’s an overcast mild day but the whisky in his hip flask warms his throat, and Booker tips his sunglasses back as the man’s shadow falls on him to give him a grim look. He knows there’s a ferry that leaves for one of the larger islands soon, if he can distract Copley long enough to make it down to the pier.  </p><p>"You haven't aged a day."</p><p>"I have." He lets the glasses fall back down to cover his face and replies plainly, "Exile will do that to you."</p><p>Copley shakes his head, and the smile on his face is both wry and sympathetic. "I can't speak from experience."</p><p>"Maybe you can." He pushes on a sore spot he can so clearly see. "Still haven't returned to the States, have you?" </p><p>And Copley closes his eyes. </p><p>Booker knows the memory of his wife is still close, still vivid enough to haunt him with just a handful of words. It is still too fresh and lacks the particular pain that comes from knowing the absence of precious memories, of the exact sounds of a beloved’s love or their smile late at night.</p><p>By the time Copley opens his eyes, he's gone. </p><p>Booker moves onto the next place. </p><p>It's freezing cold in the northern reaches of Sweden, in a sleepy fishing village that Booker’s managed to hide away in. Every morning for the past two week’s he’s walked down to the harbour, looking to see if anyone needed an extra man. </p><p>He’s had a little luck, a few grizzled old men who were happy to have an extra pair of hands when the winds tossed up big storms and made the waters more dangerous. Now, the weather’s cleared up a bit, and with it, business has returned to normal. Still, Booker thinks if he keeps showing his face for the next few days, someone wouldn’t mind letting him on board or paying him in cash for an honest day’s work. </p><p>“You again.” </p><p>Booker watches the last of the boats sail out of the harbour as Copley sits down beside him, coffee in hand, scarf wrapped up to his neck and stuffed in tight to keep the chill away. It must have taken the former CIA agent two weeks of sleepless nights, at least three flights, and a bumpy ferry ride to track him down again. "Why are you here?"</p><p>"I need to know if you want in."</p><p>"<em>In</em> on what?"</p><p>"Working."</p><p>"I don't think that'll fly with my sentence I-"</p><p>Copley cuts him off, abandons his coffee on the side of the bench and turns sideways to look at him. "I was asked to find jobs that are suited to those talents that all of you have...and there's some, Monsieur le Livre, which would suit you very well."</p><p>Booker snorts, sees the air steam up in front of his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees how Copley’s smile thins out a little. "What kind of jobs?"</p><p>“You’re aware of what the Old Guard are doing. You even helped on a mission three years ago. A man with your keen eye and particular way of barrelling through can be of use in certain situations." </p><p>He shakes his head and speaks as plainly as possible. "I don't need the money. And I don't need the hassle. If I need something, I can sort it out myself." </p><p>"How are you spending your time, Mr Booker?" Copley tries again. "Are you flitting across the world, an endless itinerary of sunny beaches and bottomless cocktail delights? Is that how you're choosing to spend your exile?"</p><p>"I can't see any sand here." Booker feels the bite in his words, turns his head to meet the other man’s face and glares. “I could do this for a lifetime, hell, what’s two or three more on top of that. Besides, who are you to talk?”</p><p>"As someone sitting on the same bench as you?" Copley sighs, "I'm someone who's really looking for an answer to my question." </p><p>“So?” </p><p>"Well?" Copley mimics and when he’s answered only with silence, he turns back to his bag and pulls out a beige folder. "If you are looking for...something, maybe you need to take a better look at yourself."</p><p>He forces it into Booker’s hands before settling back against the bench, making it clear he wasn’t shifting until there was some level of cooperation. So, just for the hell of it, Booker waits until the last boat leaving the harbour vanishes into the horizon before moving to open the file. </p><p>It is a compilation of his recent, and not so recent history in the photos. Some are half blurred film from security cameras that he’d thought were too fuzzy to bother with scrubbing. Others are newspaper clippings and official documentation that talk of survivors, rebellions, secret communiques through third parties to arrange hirings that no one would ever admit to in the light of day. </p><p>“Those photos are the final copies in existence, for your information.” Copley mentions as he finishes the last of his drink and sits there with the cup between his hands. “I’ve been working to erase any mentions of the Old Guard from digital archives.”</p><p>Booker takes his time, flipping from page to page of this not-quite diary, not quite expose of his activities. Really, after all this time, <em>this</em> bundle of papers is the most of his achievements that he can lay claim to. </p><p>Anything he owns that needs to keep, remains in his bag or pockets. Everything else, passport, identification papers, apartment keys, all of it are things that if he needs to switch out, he does that often enough. But in this small file, there’s a gossamer web of connections across decades that seem to hem him in, tucking close to the outlines of his shadow, to depict a shadowy image of the man he has become. </p><p>Some of his work had been useless. In other elements where he and the others thought they were helping, they hindered. But amongst the scraps of history, there are moments small and smaller where Booker <em>knows</em> it mattered, and for that he’s glad.  </p><p>He turns the final page to see an extended family tree. His name is marked out at the top, date of death left blank. Tracing the name of his wife with his finger, he circles down to the dead end of his three sons, and then drags his hand off the page to see the rest. Around them, the tree’s branches have continued along some lines, the names change, but the family remains in a handful of descendants. </p><p>It plucks at a heartstring he didn’t think existed, and the knowledge of it makes him uncomfortable.</p><p><em>“You and I have been doing a shit job of it,” </em>Andy had told him in the lab. </p><p>He agreed with her then, happy to remain on that bed and pay for it in the only way that seemed right. Its equivalence was pain, the exact method didn't matter to him. It was his Rome, all roads led back to it, the hole in his heart that had only grown larger since he first died in the cold Russian winter. </p><p>Now he hears her voice again, at the back of his mind, <em>“Not like this.” </em>It hits him differently now. </p><p>Booker sighs and looks up at Copley, "Alright. As a trial. One job."</p><p>They shake hands on it, and Booker folds the file, tucks it into his coat pocket as Copley promises to send through details soon. He even has the gall to smirk, "And afterwards, you can fill in some of the gaps in my research too. Don’t think I’ll forget." </p>
<hr/><p>Copley sends him a ticket to London and Booker rents a car to drive back up to the house in the Surrey countryside. He receives a plain welcome of sorts, and quickly set to work with scans of mid nineteenth century French coins and a crate of antiques and sorts things to fake and not fake piles. </p><p>“I thought you had jobs for me to do?”</p><p>When Copley slides over a fresh mug of coffee the following morning, he takes a quick sip to make enough room to add the whisky from his hip flask. </p><p>“I do. I’m waiting to hear back from a contact, but this will keep you busy for now.” </p><p>It’s not exactly what he’s expecting, but in truth he doesn’t mind it too much. </p><p>From this new base, Booker catches glimpses of the others on a more regular basis. They keep in touch with Copley through more means than his allotted day a year, and it surprises him more than he cares to admit. There’s even a postcard from Joe on the man’s desk with a scrap of poetry on the back, something about the sunshine in Malta. </p><p>And after a few days, Copley makes good on his word and sends him on a <em>real </em>job. Booker joins a crack team before they make their drop and ensures their success. It’s a quick mission, and then he’s onto the next, posted to a refugee caravan making their way across the desert. </p><p>The landscape reminds him so much of Juba that he finds it hard to sleep. </p><p>But Booker keeps them safe through their crossing and walks away with their thanks and a bad sunburn on the back of his neck that itches and peels for the next week as he lays low in Cairo. The others must have been there mere days before because there’s food in the freezer, and he finds himself acting like a ghost, stepping through the rooms to see the traces left behind. </p><p>There’s not much, they must have brought what they needed, and then took it away with them, except for the few Tupperware containers of stew and pasta in the freezer. He <em>almost </em>asks Copley if he arranged for cleaners to tidy up after the team’s visit, and simply forgot to tell them to throw everything out, because leaving food in the freezer was an absent minded mistake to make, especially if they didn’t know when they’d be returning to the city. </p><p>Yet Booker doesn’t see the need for it to go to waste. As the week ticks on, he leaves the food out to defrost and nukes in the microwave. The pasta was freshly made, and it’s gotten a little soft from sitting in the sauce, but it’s easily the best thing he’s eaten in months. He bulks out the portions with fresh bread from the market to make them last through until the end of his stay. </p><p>After Cairo, he’s sent onto Syria, and then across to Venezuela. He spends two nights in a small house outside of Caracas that Copley’s set up for them to use whenever they’re passing through. At some point in the last year, Joe and Nicky were there with Nile, and they had collected a handful of things during their stay. A guitar remains on a small stand in the corner of the living room, while handfuls of cutlery still rattle in the kitchen drawers. He also finds one of Joe’s sketchbooks on the table beside the sofa, sandwiched between a copy of Far From The Madding Crowd and a Mandarin grammar guide. </p><p>Flicking through the pages, Booker can trace through little snippets of their downtime; the mundane but beautiful moments of landscape, Nicky’s smiling face as he and Nile play cards in an indeterminable setting, Andy driving in a van with her hair flicking out in the breeze from the window, the view of a city from a rooftop balcony. </p><p>He changes hemispheres again, and the seasons turn over too. </p><p>A long and windy autumn sweeps Marseille up, and Booker crashes at his own safe house there, watching the leaves turn golden and then drop into rust-red piles. Andy leaves him a message there,<em> ‘un malheur n’arrive jamais seul, mais tu ne penses pas qu’il est temps de tourner la page?’</em> tucked inside the cover of a new reprint of <em>The Odyssey, </em>which makes him laugh bitterly. </p><p>He briefly considers asking Copley for her most recent number, imagines himself dialling it and hearing her voice down the line. There’s about three different jokes on the tip of his tongue, something about Mediterranean tides, another about nobodies, and a third on whether she’d prefer him to chuck it in the recycling or see if he can hang onto it for posterity’s sake. </p><p>But then after that, the image blurs, and he’s not quite sure what he’d really want to say. </p><p>Winter comes and Booker locks up and leaves when Copley calls with another job. He spends three long months barrelling through the Amazonian jungle, breaking every single piece of logging machinery he could find. </p><p>Nile keeps calling him on the satellite link that Copley had arranged, something about sending coordinates, but he can find the illegal logging teams easy enough under his own steam. Still, he sets up the solar panels, lets the box charge up in the mornings, and then returns each evening to his makeshift camp to dial back on the missed calls. </p><p>They talk about things he’s not-quite forgotten, about family and navigating the feeling of feeling invincible.</p><p>“I can’t imagine how Andy could spend those years alone, before Quynh.” </p><p>Booker swallows heavily, “No, I can’t either.” He’s tried to, several times. But he can’t comprehend hundreds of years alone, let alone thousands.  </p><p>“If I think too much on it, it scares me.” The admission comes from her slowly, “That amount of time.” </p><p>“Thinking that it’s a blessing or a curse doesn’t do much. You’re on the right track, Nile. You’ve got family, we’ll be here for you.”</p><p>He hears her silence on the line. “You know that works both ways, Booker.” </p><p>When Booker returns to Marseille in the spring, he doesn't feel so weighed down. </p><p>In the cool sunshine, he walks down a familiar, if changed, route only to find that the lodestone of his old home is gone. The protected row of historical buildings that he had once lived in with his wife, where his children’s laughter had echoed across the staircases and floors, and where he had staggered back to like a pilgrim in the years after they had gone, no longer stood. </p><p>The buildings had been pulled down not long after the new year, and the land was marked to be used for greener constructions that would sport solar panels on the roofs. Booker tries to imagine it collapsing into rubble and dust, but the shock of it doesn’t cut as deep as he thinks it would have. </p><p>He spends an evening deliberating at the back of an Irish pub with the football on loud and the crowds’ cheering even louder, and the next morning he sends a message to Copley, with a request to buy up one of the new apartments under an alias.</p>
<hr/><p>Time slides on, and he's sent ahead into the field to scope out and sabotage a group of former military soldiers turned mercenary. Originally their aims had been to smash and grab anything valuable or usable in their efforts to take the next city, but it quickly devolves into a tumultuous situation needing a quick extraction of the hostages they were using as human shields. </p><p>So Booker calls it into Copley, who confirms he'll arrange the necessary support. Then he hunkers down in the mountains and keeps an eye on the road a few kilometres away, but it’s quiet, and the only lights come from the mercenaries’ small camp further out on the flats. </p><p>When he receives Copley’s message after dusk, '<em>team enroute', </em>and he decides to get as much sleep as possible.  </p><p>As the pinpricks of stars begin to fade into the lightening of dawn, Booker sees who the backup team is, and it's the last thing he's expecting. He watches as they climb up the mountain, using the last shreds of night for cover, all the while expecting them to disappear. </p><p>But they don’t, because it’s not some strange mirage. </p><p>"Hey, Book." Andy says to him with a warm smile, slowly dropping her bag to the floor. He shifts his weight slowly to stand, before reaching out to hug her and her hand clamps around his shoulders to squeeze tight. </p><p>Joe and Nicky exchange a look behind her. Joe's eyes flick down, and it's a silent conversation between the two of them before he begins to unpack his bag with the excuse of sharing out breakfast after their long trek.</p><p>"Booker, here." </p><p>Nicky hands some over, and the surprise of it catches him off guard. Booker holds the flapjacks in his hands and startles when Nile drops a hand onto his shoulder before she discards her bag too, crouching down to take a look down the scope he had set up the night before. </p><p>"You want to run us through the plan?" Andy asks before she polishes off her share of the energy bars and washes them down with some warm orange juice. </p><p>He does, and she makes a few suggestions. Then they all agree to make their move after sunset. They'd brought enough supplies and Copley had arranged for transport to arrive after and take the hostages to safety. But between now and then there's a long wait. Nicky sets up a tent in a dip between some larger rocks a few feet lower down the track, and all four of them sleep in the shade until the late afternoon. </p><p>Nile wakes first and clambers back up to the rocky outcrop he's wedged himself into. </p><p>"How's it been?" Booker leans forward to hand over the scope. </p><p>"Alright. We were on a boat for the past week and a half, until the call came through. It's good to sleep without thinking you're going to hurl."</p><p>He grins back at her. "I wouldn't mind a sea view after this."</p><p>"So... I took your advice, and I sent a letter to my mom. Starting to get her used to the idea of hearing less from me."</p><p>Booker sighs, "I'm sorry."</p><p>"Don't be. It was good advice. I got to spend more time with my family. I’ll get to be able to say goodbye properly, leave them with good memories of me." She smiles back, and he knows the value of that time more than anyone in the world. </p><p>"How is it looking?" Andy's voice rises over the dusty path behind them and her soft footsteps approach. </p><p>"All quiet. They've got minimal guards outside, six posted on the roof of the main building."</p><p>Nile raises the scope to look again. "Three on the side entrance too. But they're drinking rather than watching."</p><p>Andy nods, "Nicky, Joe! Let's pack up and head down." </p><p>Booker gets to his feet, and they all follow her lead. The mission goes well. They're a little battered and bruised from the fight but with fewer injuries than their last team mission together. He thinks it's down to more experience with working together, and perhaps a pinch of luck. </p><p>The hostages are delivered to safety and there's a car waiting for them where Copley said there would be one. Booker says his goodbyes in rote, ready to walk in the opposite direction as they draw closer. He knows there's options for him; a train ticket, or even buying a motorbike and heading southwards. After so much land, a sea view does sound like a good idea.  </p><p>Nicky stops a few steps from the car, turns and drops his hood and says in Italian, "Wait, Booker."  </p><p>With his name drawn out, more of a request than a curt goodbye he wasn’t even expecting, Booker does stop dead in his tracks. </p><p>"We've been talking. All of us. Andy says after her immortality ended, she was reminded that we're not meant to be alone." Joe says as he leans against the car with his arms crossed. "I know what that means, and I know that I am lucky enough to have this. For as long as I have Nicky, I will never be alone on this earth."</p><p>Nicky trades a smile with Joe before picking up his words, "But we also know it is more than that."</p><p>Booker frowns, unsure of how to even to think further than what was being said by the pair. "What does that mean?"</p><p>"Andy and Quynh sought us out. We searched for them. It was the same with you Booker, and then Nile. We dream of each other until we meet. We <em>are </em>meant to find each other. We are <em>meant </em>to be family."</p><p>"I fucked that up by betraying you. Two hundred, short, years of us and I wrecked it by thinking there was another way out- I thought that I could end this feeling- and I’m sorry." The words fly out of his mouth. The admission after the time they've spent apart with cooler heads and cooler hearts still can’t lift the leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach. </p><p>"You did." Joe nods, "But if there's anyone who would understand this, anyone who could forgive it, it would also be us. We live too long for it."</p><p>Nicky shuffles on the spot and takes a few steps forward, as though he's still expecting Booker to walk away. "Time heals all wounds. And we will heal quicker together than with you only around one day each year." </p><p>"Besides, the boss misses you." Joe tacks on in English, and receives a not-so-light jab to his arm from Andy as she steps around to fish the car keys out from the wheel arch. </p><p>She unlocks the car, looking expectantly at him, and suddenly Booker finds his voice again, daring to ask, "So what happens now?"</p><p>"Same as always, isn't it?” Nile opens the rear car door closest to her and throws her bag in, hand outstretched for his. “We go where we're needed, because we've got work to do. Or since this mission’s over, maybe it’s time we go somewhere for some quiet." </p><p>Andy throws a pointed look over the group and tacks on a decisive, "Together."</p><p>But Booker's pack stays on his shoulder, hands numb and legs frozen as the rest of his hundred-year exile melts away, only for Joe to close the distance and take it from him. The movement makes Booker lean forwards, and he takes a step to steady himself, and then another, and another until he's following Joe to the car.</p><p>Nicky’s the one who opens the door on the other side from Nile at the back. "Get in, Sébastien. It's time for you to come home."</p>
<hr/><p>He returns to Surrey after the team part ways again, a temporary split rather than anything ringing of permanence.  </p><p>Copley’s home is large enough that the two of them don’t feel cooped up, but secluded enough for Booker to allow it to become a frequent stopover. He had experienced two hundred years of the necessity of moving on and it’s transformative to be known for what he is by another person outside of their family. </p><p>At the beginning, it had puzzled Booker. The man had gained the trust of the team, and it offered a template or model to him, <em>here’s how you can make your way back, one small step at a time. </em></p><p>He was dedicated to their work too, a strange thing to see in a short life of little consequence. But it's not hard for Booker to come around to the understanding of how his motivations went beyond the original guilt of his actions in selling them off to Merrick. </p><p>For Copley, it wasn't only about redemption. </p><p>“You knew who you were getting into bed with, when you approached Merrick.” Booker tells him one morning, rather than asks, as they divide the fresh batch of coffee between themselves. </p><p>“He talked about finding a cure." Copley bows his head to look at the half-filled mug, "It was everything I wanted to hear.”</p><p>Hearing the words that had been so familiar to his own thoughts, Booker freezes at the reaction. “And... the rest became history.” </p><p>“You?” </p><p>“I thought, if there ever was a time it could make a difference, maybe it was now.” He stares down at the tabletop. “That it would make a difference, some good to the world, and to us. Andy and I... we carry more than the others do.”</p><p>“Between a sample of five, it’s hardly comparable.” </p><p>“Debatable. Six thousand years, two hundred years...pain is still pain. And for me, it got to the point where it seemed nothing else mattered. I thought I could turn it into something better, I thought I could end it… but in my blindness I almost brought around something worse.” Booker clamps his mouth shut and then steps back until his back hits the fridge door. "I betrayed them. All we have in this lonely godforsaken existence is each other, and I took it to pieces. I took one version of pain and just replaced it with another, maybe one that's worse. If I had known about Andy, if I had known that there'd be someone new...I-"</p><p>"You wouldn't have sought me out?"</p><p>He shakes his head, over and over, "I want to say no. I <em>want </em>to."  </p><p>"You chose wrong. It doesn't mean that trying to search for that right answer was wrong." Copley stares back, and again, it’s strange to have a man so <em>young</em> try to offer that advice to him.</p><p>Booker's reply comes back flat, and he stares to look out of the window. “Speak for yourself.” </p><p>There's a heavy moment of silence.</p><p>It draws a strained laugh out of Copley, and Booker finds himself joining in. "You know, you're a <em>very </em>cantankerous Frenchman."</p><p>At that, he got a flurry of old French in response, completely incomprehensible to him, which only made him laugh harder.  </p><p>They part ways, Copley to his study and Booker to the basement, but not before he leaves his hip flask on the counter, preferring to stick to the coffee all morning. The days tick on, he leaves on jobs, and the others continue to stay in touch. There’s still distance, and he’s not entirely forgiven, but it makes it easier to think about moving forwards. </p><p>Another full year passes, and they fall into their new usual patterns, more or less. </p><p>The loss of Andy's immortality binds them closer. The four of them orbit her, even as she comes and goes as she pleases. Nile takes to travelling with her, and of course he joins them for the company, to make the most of the time they have left. There's a balance in their trio between the old and new, and he finds himself being useful in bridging Andy's occasional timelessness with Nile's impatience for answers. </p><p>It's easier to forget his guilt with them, Andy isn't one to dwell on the recent past with her attention on pushing into the future with the next mission, the next flight, the next fight. They also spend a fair amount of time siphoning money to projects working on shipwreck dives and drones mapping out the seabed, and tracking groups who were cataloguing old maps and historical witch-hunt records, in the hope that new developments could help shed light on Quynh’s iron maiden still lying deep underwater.  </p><p>Joe and Nicky meet them often too, and Nile swaps Andy's guiding presence for theirs when the boss looks for some quiet time. No matter where they go, they all circle back to familiar places, leaving messages of their next meet ups in between missions. </p><p>Even when he breaks away from the group to return to France, he meets Nile in Athens for a tour of the museums. From there, he passes through the Mediterranean on winding coastal roads and spends two weeks with Nicky and Joe in Sicily at a remote farm guesthouse in the countryside where he has to help fix up the rotting barn roof and endure speaking in Genoan with them for the entire time. A few weeks after that he crosses paths with Andy in the departures lounge at San Francisco International, just for an afternoon, before he catches his connection onto Boston and she to Hawaii. </p><p>More months pass and he’s called back on a job. The English weather is true to form and welcomes Booker with a week of solid grey skies and thunderstorms. He hates it, but it's more hassle to move the entire basement studio to another country than he can be bothered with. From his windowless but well-lit set up, he doesn’t keep track of the time or the near constant downpours. </p><p>It’s only when there’s boots on the staircase that he looks up, finding the sound different from the background noise of the TV or Copley's shouts for food. He looks over his shoulder and smiles wide, “Hello Nile.”</p><p>“Hey Booker-<em>is</em> <em>that </em>a Van Gogh?” She jumps down the remaining steps to stand beside him, and he shuffles back slightly. The movement reveals the rest of the canvas, painted with sweeping circles of wind blowing through the night air over Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. </p><p>Under the lamps pointed at it, she could see that the paint was still wet. "It's in MOMA. The real one. I saw it last year...Wait, it’s still there, right?" </p><p>Her fingers hover over the side of the desk, looking over the paint brushes and discarded swatches, and the half a dozen references scattered around. </p><p>“Yeah the real one’s still there. Copley needs a decent copy for the handoff. Strangest deal I’ve seen in a while, if I’m telling the truth, but if the disruption we get from poaching the trade-off ends up shorting the stocks and they have to pull out of supplying arms to the government, then it’s all good, right?”</p><p>It’s a convoluted explanation and makes Nile snort in agreement before her eyes return to the painting. “You’ve even got the right shade of yellow.” </p><p>He smiles at the compliment. “How’s things been?” </p><p>“Good, and I met Joe and Nicky at the airport. They’re upstairs sorting food. Andy’s coming this evening.” </p><p>He feels like he's shedding of another layer of shale hardened over his skin. One part of him wants nothing more than to take the stairs two or three at a time and set his eyes on Joe and Nicky again, and then wait there to see Andy arrive with his own eyes. </p><p>But he's broken away from his thoughts as Nile leans back towards the canvas and then looks around before dragging a chair over to sit beside him. “Yeah, you’re going to have to teach me how you’ve done that.”</p><p>The seriousness is set in her face even while they trade another smile. His facade breaks as hers does. It turns up her lips and his dissolves into a laugh. Yet again, he glimpses how their family slots together. </p><p>"Alright, alright! You've twisted my arm. Look, I’m nearly done with this layer.” He loads up a wide paintbrush and knocks out enough of the mixture to create another thin coating over the barely dried landscape. </p><p>And then Booker begins breaking down the mix of chemicals used to mimic the textures of paint long fallen out of manufacturing as Nile bombards him with a bunch of questions on the tricks he's acquired over the years. By the time he’s answered a dozen or so, there's the sound of two more pairs of footsteps along with a flurry of Genoan coming down on the stairs to the basement.  </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>aaaand this turned out a lot longer than i expected<br/>hope it reads alright :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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